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Chapter 4
Original Word Count: 3385
Revision Word Count: 4890
She supposed it was the plight of all young girls to peer into the mirror at their own reflections, obsessing over every flaw real or imagined and wondering if their prince would forgive them for it. Elia Martell was a woman of five and twenty, not a girl of three and ten, yet she found herself in front of a mirror just the same. Truth be told she'd been here many times in the past moon.
Vanity was not her way, but she was not blind. Though slightly built and flat of chest, the Princess of Dorne was beautiful, stunningly so, copper skin pairing with dark eyes and hair to paint the very image of Dornish sensuality. While perhaps not as radiant as those women of story and legend such as the first Rhaenys Targaryen or her own ancestor Nymeria, she was not one to be overlooked. She didn't dwell on it or wave it like a banner as some did, but she'd known she was beautiful since she was a young girl. No matter the flaws her teenaged mind had thrown at her, she had never truly doubted the fact.
Until recently.
Objectively she knew the fault was not in her. The fault was in Rhaegar, and in Rhaegar alone, but all the maesters in the Citadel would be hard pressed to find a woman who wouldn't have their confidence shaken by the heir to the throne's actions. When her husband had won the tourney of Harrenhal, unhorsing his own brother after each Targaryen broke twelve lances on the others shield, she had been expected to be named the Queen of Love and Beauty. There were other attractive women present to be sure—Cersei Lannister, Catelyn Tully, her own dear friend Ashara Dayne—but it was tradition for a victorious knight to crown his wife if he had one, none other. Only bypassing a spouse to crown a daughter would be understandable; if Rhaegar had done that, crowning Rhaenys, Elia would have smiled and laughed and loved him for it.
But Rhaegar had not done that. Instead, the Prince of Dragonstone had ridden past the royal box, the hundreds of nobles going quiet as he shunned the mother of his children and rode to the box of House Stark of Winterfell, extending the crown of roses on the end of his lance to young Lyanna. Elia had smiled and laughed to cover her shock and embarrassment, but she was one of the few to do so.
She'd asked for an explanation the moment they were alone, and Rhaegar had given her a flowery answer meant to disarm and appease her. It had done neither of those things, for Elia was not one to be so easily fooled. In the moons following she'd brought it up sparingly, offering him the opportunity to tell her the truth of things instead of excuses, but he had never once wavered. He had not shunned her or her embraces, either, and Elia had nearly gotten past the entire ordeal, marking it down as a brief bit of fancy and appreciation of the Stark girl's undeniable spirit.
And then, word had filtered in from the North; Rhaegar had taken Lyanna Stark and disappeared. No warning, no word of apology, nothing before or after hand to soften the blow. It had been well over a moon ago, and the truth of the matter was that she still hadn't wrapped her mind around it fully. They had never been truly in love, but they had been happy. Hadn't we? She would have said yes not long ago, but now the Princess of Dorne didn't know what to believe.
While she wouldn't lie and say she didn't feel the sting, her concern was more for her children. Rhaenys was only two namedays old and Aegon was still an infant, so the scandal of their father's betrayal of their mother wouldn't dawn on them for years yet, but the war that it alongside their grandfather's lunacy had started threatened them here and now. The Vale had called its banners, and it only stood to reason that the North and Stormlands were doing the same. King Aerys had called his own after a terrifying rant that had included the King burning the messenger alive with wildfire, but Elia wasn't sure how many lords would answer. Her goodfather's epithet of the Mad King was well deserved, and Jon Arryn was well respected across Westeros. She was quiet but she certainly wasn't stupid; if this rebellion were to win, her children would be threats to whomever the traitors chose as king.
That almost certainly meant death.
All because my husband grew tired of me.
She was studying her figure when she realized there was another in the reflection. For just a moment her heart stopped; a tall man with silver hair and violet eyes stood in the doorway behind her, as Rhaegar had done a thousand times. With a startled gasp the Princess of Dorne whirled around, hems of her dark blue dress twirling, but of course it was not her returned husband. The resemblance between them was strong, true—same eyes, same jawline, same way of holding their spines straight and shoulders back. But this man was bigger and thicker of chest, with silvery beard and short hair instead of cleanly shaven with hair to his shoulders, and a face that was handsome but not as hauntingly beautiful as Rhaegar's.
"Aelor," she breathed out, hand to her breast as she took a step back to lean against the wall. "You frightened me."
Her goodbrother stepped deeper into the room, smiling sheepishly. "I apologize, my princess. You seemed to be pondering something too deep for interruption." Dressed sharply in black with the white dragons of his personal sigil on the chest, he bowed formally, violet eyes not leaving her.
Elia shoved off the wall and back to her feet, though her heart still raced. From the shock of course, nothing else. She curtsied in response, then glared in mock severity. "You are forgiven for lurking like a stableboy, but not for being gone for so long."
When the Lord of Duskendale grinned, he reminded her very much of the gangly lad of six and ten she had first met when she traveled to King's Landing to marry his brother. "Then you have my apologies for that as well, Princess."
Aelor was her favorite of the Targaryens and she made no excuses for it. He had been since that first day at the dock, when she had arrived to a stinking city with few friends and a very Dronish appearance. In the Princess of Dorne's opinion, he was the only Targaryen with any true sense to him—her husband's recent lapses in judgement had all but confirmed it. He had been instrumental in making her feel welcome both in the capitol and at Dragonstone, and though he was often in Duskendale as was proper, he visited both frequently. He had an obvious soft spot for Rhaenys and was enamored with baby Aegon, heaping gifts and affectionate upon them often and loudly.
He was also her staunchest supporter through the mess of things his brother had made. They'd always gotten along well, but at Harrenhal he had nearly torn Rhaegar in two, his rage so great one would have thought he had been the woman scorned. It had taken three of the Kingsguard to pull him off, and his booming beratements had echoed off the stone walls of the Kings Tower like thunder. It had been a wonder to behold and no small amount frightening; in those moments his violet eyes had gone wide and dark and his face savage, and Elia had seen the only trace of madness she'd ever known him to display.
At the feast that night the prince had made a point of dancing with her frequently and keeping her company constantly, keeping her laughing and moving and otherwise too occupied to dwell. Any attempt by nobles to discuss Rhaegar's actions within earshot were quickly and bluntly crushed by Aelor's deep base and vicious jibs, and she'd nearly pulled him aside to lecture him on the offenses he was certainly giving.
But she had not, because he'd been the only one to speak truly out of outrage for her.
Back in the present, she sniffed indignantly. "I suppose you can be forgiven for this too, but you are in my debt, and I shall not forget it."
He grinned down at her. "We have a deal." He reached out to place a familiar hand on her shoulder, nearly engulfing it. "And how is my favorite Dornishwoman?"
She giggled like a teenager, patting his arm as he dropped the hand from the shoulder; neither of them acknowledged the goosebumps left in its wake. "I'm the only Dornishwoman you know."
"Nonsense! I'm rather well associated with your Vaith handmaiden. Talana, with the long legs and impressively flexible…everything." His grin grew. "I know you remember, because you teased me relentlessly for over a year."
Elia scoffed a laugh and rolled her eyes. "Because she wouldn't shut up about you for near as long. Kept talking about how her dragon prince had swept her off her feet."
"If I recall correctly, she swept me off of mine." He glanced around in mock interest. "Did you leave her on Dragonstone?"
"She is arriving tomorrow with the rest of my household if all goes to plan. Perhaps I should send her back with you being here."
Aelor leaned in conspiratorially. "So you're saying there is a chance…" She slapped him again, then laughed aloud. It felt good to do so again; there had been so little to smile about of late.
Aelor cleared his throat, replacing the mocking playfulness with a genuine smile. "How are the children? Are they here?"
"Of course, they traveled with myself and uncle Lewyn. Aegon is sleeping in his nursery after a rough time on the sea voyage, and Rhaenys is with Ashara, fussing over the kitten you gifted her half a year ago, though it's certainly a kitten no more."
His grin grew as it always did when her daughter was mentioned. "Ah yes, the infamous Balerion the Black Dread."
"A most appropriate title, I assure you."
"I'll be sure to visit them both before I leave, and of course my favorite nephew. I have a new doll for Rhaenys; porcelain and all the way from Volantis, with dragonglass eyes. I've kept it in my baggage for nearly a month now, waiting for the right opportunity." Elia couldn't help but think that Aelor was more excited at the prospect of giving the doll than Rhaenys would be at receiving it, and there were few things her daughter loved more than gifts.
"You certainly spoil her." Like the dark cloud it had been since Harrenhal, her earlier apprehension returned rather quickly, dissipating her mirth like fog beneath the sun's rays. "You know how pleased I am to see you, but why are you here? I heard your father send for you, and I only arrived this morning myself."
The Lord of Duskendale's smile faded even quicker than her own had. "It did not take a genius to know how Jon Arryn would react to my father's demands. I called my banners weeks ago; they are camped outside the city as we speak."
Whatever minuscule hope Elia Martell had held onto fled. "I see. So you march to war then."
Aelor's face, moments ago alight with laughter, was now grim and stony. "I intend to scatter the Stormlord hosts before they can assemble. Remove the antlers of the stag, as it were."
"Are you good with teeth? The North has risen against us as well, as you likely know."
His jaw clenched. "I do, and I believe the Riverlands will as well." He glanced at her, then away. "I offered myself in marriage to either of Hoster Tully's daughters and received his response mere hours before we marched. He claimed his eldest was in grieving for her recently strangled betrothed, and that he would not consider offers for his youngest until Catelyn had recovered and was married herself."
It didn't take a superior mind to see the falsities in that. "A farce of an answer."
"Yes. I imagine Tully has something else planned for his daughters, and I'd wager those plans have to do with the rebelling regions."
Four of the eight regions—half of the realm—all in rebellion because I couldn't please my husband. She didn't know whether she should feel guilty or enraged. "How many men do you have?"
"Seven thousand after adding Lord Rosby and Lord Stokeworth's sworn men. I'll gather more from the Bywaters of the Kingswood."
"Will the king allow you to go?"
Aelor's face twisted in anger, though his tone did not change. "The king cannot stop me. I will not sit idly by while he and my brother destroy a dynasty that took fields of fire and rivers of blood to build."
She nodded softly, eyes dropping to Aelor's chest as he confirmed what she already suspected. "So you have had no word from Rhaegar either."
His voice, when it finally answered, was dark and angry. "None." She had nothing further to say on that, and Aelor seemed to realize it. He cleared his throat, swallowing down his anger. "I will say my goodbyes to you and the children before I march. I must go handle my father now."
Quietly swallowing down her own emotion, she looked back up at him and nodded. "Good luck. If you drive towards the Dornish Marches, you will likely meet with Doran's vanguard. I imagine he put Oberyn in command. The two of you together tends to be trouble." She smiled weakly, one he returned. "Take care, Aelor, both in the field and here in the keep. The king grows worse every day."
The prince nodded his thanks, then reached out and clasped her small hand in his larger one, bringing it to his lips and placing a soft kiss to her knuckles. "You do the same, Elia. I will make this right, I swear it." He smiled, stroked her hand with a thumb, then dropped it and turned away.
The Princess of Dorne watched the straight back of the Dragon of Duskendale stride away, hand burning. She wondered if, by the end of this war, there would be enough still intact to make right.
His father looked bad.
Aerys Targaryen had once been kingly, at least in bearing. Tall and regal with an authoritative manner, he'd had a love for dancing, masked balls and feasts, and had a charm about him that drew others in. He'd always been eccentric, Aelor knew, but the realm had prospered during the first dozen years of his rule. None could argue that most thanks for that were owed to Tywin Lannister; the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands was as capable a Hand of the King as the realm had ever seen. But Aerys had allowed Tywin the autonomy to keep the kingdoms running, and kept his madness contained and masked well enough that his had been considered a good reign.
The Defiance of Duskendale, however, had done away with it all. The rebellion had driven whatever remnants of sanity his father had had into the darkest abyss of the Mad King's mind. His jealousy of Tywin had boiled over, and even one as stoic as he could only take so much. Lannister had resigned his post as Hand and returned to Casterly Rock, leaving Aerys to rule unchecked.
That was when it had all truly gone to shit.
The kings Small Council was nothing to speak of. Hanger-on's and lickspittles, the lot of them, save perhaps Varys. The Spider was a dangerous enemy or irreplaceable ally depending on whose side he took, a man Aelor did not fully trust but did not dislike. While he played the game of lavish praises and niceties to the king, his spiderweb of contacts and spies was unrivaled and very, very valuable. He was the only member of the Small Council that Aelor bothered to acknowledge, nodding once to him and then to Ser Jonothor Darry of the Kingsguard as he entered the chamber.
"Father," Aelor greeted with a cheeriness he didn't feel. The king was watching him from the head of that table, head tilted down like a predator. His hair was long and matted, his fingernails nearly the same length and curved like talons. Aerys' once proud bearing had been replaced by a stooped posture, the crown upon his head seemingly driving the incompetent king below it into the ground. Though he wore sleeves, Aelor knew his father's arms were covered in dozens of scabs from wounds inflicted by the Iron Throne itself.
"Aelor," his father croaked out. Once, in Aelor's childhood, he had had a resplendent baritone voice. Now it cracked as if the man mistrusted language itself. That may well be the case; Aerys certainly mistrusts everything else. "You have an army outside my gates."
The Dragon of Duskendale sank to a knee beside the king's chair. "An army here to serve you, Your Grace." Aelor rose after a few moments, knowing that if he waited for his father to bid him rise he would be on that knee for hours. Keeping his body facing his father in deference, he slid around the table to the chair across from the king. He did not sit, instead resting his hands on back of the empty seat of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard—Ser Gerold Hightower had, alongside Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent, disappeared with Rhaegar.
Aerys hadn't seemed to notice Aelor's declaration of loyalty or hadn't accepted it. "You have an army outside my gates. I only summoned you this morning; how are you here?"
Aelor met and held his father's eyes, no mean feat considering Aerys' eyes were barely recognizable as human anymore, putting one more in mind of a cornered predator. I once loved you, father. I feel you once loved me as well, though I believe you no longer capable of that. "I called my banners weeks ago, Your Grace."
Those inhuman eyes shimmered with rage, the king leaning forward. "I did not command that."
Lord Symond Staunton of Rook's Rest, Master of Laws and one of the worst of the fawners, spoke disapprovingly. "Prince Aelor should have asked your leave, my king."
Aelor turned to stare down at the seated buffoon. Lord Staunton was an average man when standing; when seated, Aelor completely dwarfed him. "Silence, Staunton. I am speaking with my father."
Aerys was smiling when Aelor looked back at him. Even when men speak in his defense, he likes to see them whittled down. "My men are of course yours to command, Your Grace, and these are troubling times. I merely intended to have them ready to serve you quicker, so you need not wait for them to arrive." Aerys leaned back, saying nothing. Taking it as leave to continue, Aelor forged ahead. "I hear we are at war. I beg your permission to gather the men of Lord Bywater and march on the Stormlands, with their strength added to my own host."
Aerys never looked away, never blinked. "Bywater serves me."
"Yes, Your Grace, as do I. I only wish to bring these traitors to heel, for the glory of King Aerys and House Targaryen."
"I have already sent out missives labeling Lords Arryn, Stark and Baratheon traitors," rambled the old voice belonging to the even older Owen Mayweather, the obese Lord of Longtable with the Hand of the King badge pinned to his lapel. Aelor had never cared for the man; he was amiable enough, it was true, but the replacement of Tywin Lannister as Hand of the King was about as useful as nipples on a breastplate.
"Yes, and nothing else," Aelor snapped, causing Merryweather to furrow his brow in insult. Good. BE insulted; the Seven know you can't do anything else. Aelor gave him no more attention, turning back to his father. "Your Grace I beg you, allow me to crush this rebellion. Let them sing the praises of Aerys, and how he ended a war before it could truly begin." I, too, am a lickspittle when I must be. It was needed to achieve his goals, but Aelor couldn't deny it shamed him.
The king, still unblinking, watched his second son for a long time. When he finally spoke, he thrust a gnarled, scarred finger towards Aelor, it's yellow nail curving down. "They will sing the praises of Aelor, not Aerys." His tone was quiet but intense, brimming with anger and suspicion. "I am no fool. You wish to gather this power unto yourself, as your brother has done. Do you wish to replace him, Aelor? Or are you and him conspiring, perhaps to replace me?"
The other lords of the small council were watching, turning their eyes on Lord of Duskendale as if to share their king's suspicion. They probably didn't, but Aelor's temper and disgust with their conduct had not made him friends among their number. He was relying heavily on Varys, the closest to an ally he had among them, to prevent the others from turning Aerys against him once Aelor was out of the room.
The prince ignored them all, focused on the only man that mattered. "I wish none of those things, Your Grace. You are the king, and my father. I only wish to defeat your enemies, and those of House Targaryen. I know not where Rhaegar is, but I am certain he wishes the same."
This round of staring was longer than the first, and Aelor felt his patience wearing thin, but he held his tongue. He would do his family, broken thing that it was, no good dead, and Aelor knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his father's mind had regressed to the point that he would willfully kill his own son.
King Aerys finally spoke a single word, giving a wave of a knobby hand. "Go."
It served as both permission and dismissal, and Aelor wasted no time in exiting. "Thank you, Your Grace." He turned and left without another word or look back.
Ser Manfred Darke, Ser Willas Lyberr, Ser Alester Turnbuckle and Renfred awaited him outside the main hall, Aelor having left Ser Barristan in charge of his forces outside the city. The Dragon Prince had feared that, upon seeing the white of his armor, Aerys would demand Ser Barristan remain in King's Landing. Aelor refused to risk that possibility; he was a deadly warrior, a truth he prided himself on and strove to maintain, but Ser Barristan had experience of war the prince knew he would need in the coming conflict.
"Send a rider to Lord Bywater, Willas. His force is to be ready to march by the time I reach the Kingswood. From there we march on Bronzegate, though only he and his chief advisors are to know that last bit." Willas nodded and moved to obey, Alester going with him as always.
"I take it the king has approved of your plan then," Rykker mused. "That didn't take long."
Aelor sighed heavily. "Is it unholy for a man to dread the company of his own father? If so, the Seven must surely despise me. He gave permission and I left ten seconds later, and even that was not quick enough."
Rykker was already moving in the direction of Willas and Alester, towards the courtyard where the quintet had left their horses. "When do we leave?"
"By nightfall. Have them ready, Ren. Strong shield."
"Stronger sword," Renfred called back over his shoulder.
"Manfred, with me." The boulder of a man fell into step behind Aelor at once, following at his heels as the Targaryen prince turned and reentered the Red Keep. The biggest obstacle has been removed, at least for the time being. He smirked and chuckeld to himself in exasperation. Now I just have to win the damn war.
Rhaenys looked more and more like her mother.
The toddler was still forming words, babbling unintelligibly but happily to the doll he had brought for her. Aelor couldn't help but smile at her from the other side of the doorway, knowing that his niece would grow into a beauty that rivaled even Ashara Dayne, who was seated across from the copper-skinned girl with another doll Aelor had gifted Rhaenys, playing along.
Even the Dragon of Duskendale had lost track of how many trinkets and presents he had showered her with. The young princess had her uncle wrapped around her tiny olive-toned fingers, and the entire Red Keep knew it. Aelor didn't care. He would fight and die for that child.
Thanks to both her father and his, he very well might.
"You can go in, you know." Elia appeared beside him, tiny Aegon resting soundly in her arms. Aelor started at her sudden appearance, prompting a knowing smile from the Dornishwoman. "Jumpy, aren't we."
Glaring at her in jest, he quickly replaced it with a smile, holding out his arms. Elia seamlessly shifted the sleeping infant from her shoulder to the crook of his uncle's arm. "I know, but I can not stay long. We march for the Stormlands tonight." He gestured back inside with a twist of his head. "I had Ashara give her the doll. She seems to like it."
Elia laughed. "Of course she did. She always does love presents." Elia smiled at the pair of Targaryens, silver haired and fair. One was a giant and the other a babe, but they looked so very similar in her eyes. "Are you certain you won't go in and see her? She likes you almost as much as your gifts."
Aelor hesitated, gentle rocking the heir to the heir in his arms, then reluctantly shook his head. "I had best not. My men are already being roused and prepared to march; I must join them before long. In truth I was only waiting on you." Aelor smiled smally at her furrowed brow, then called out quietly. "Ser Manfred."
The big man stepped around the corner, face impassive even as he bowed his head to the beautiful woman before him. Elia returned the greeting, then raised an eyebrow at Aelor for explanation. "Princess Elia, this is Ser Manfred Darke. He is uncouth and savagely mean, but he is as loyal a man as I have ever known, and a good friend." The Lord of Duskendale met her black eyes with his own dark violet ones, making sure he had her full attention. "I am leaving him here with you, as your sworn shield. Not my father's, yours, yours and the children's. You and they are his only concern." Aelor glanced at Manfred. "I will miss him on the battlefield, but his business here is much more important…though I pray to the Mother that he never needs to go about it. The numbers against us are great, and my father's madness grows worse. If King's Landing is to fall, you and the children will be in the gravest danger of all, both from the rebels and from the king himself."
Elia shifted on her feet, hating this talk of her greatest fear, especially coming from the man with whom her best hope of preventing it lay. "King's Landing is well defended, her gates—"
"Breachable," Aelor cut in gently. "If that is to happen, Elia, Ser Manfred has been tasked with getting you and the children out of the city, along with my mother and Viserys. He has never failed me before and I know he will not in this. If that time comes—"
"Aelor, I—"
"If that time comes," he persisted with a shake of his head, "you must do exactly as he says. If not for yourself, then for Rhaenys and Aegon." He made an odd sight, face deadly serious even as he gently rocked a sleeping child in his arm. "Do you understand, goodsister?"
Elia could only nod, fear for her children and for the young Targaryen in front of her making it impossible to speak. Aelor looked at her for a moment, then quietly reached out with his free arm. She melted into his side at once, tucking her face into his chest and wrapping her arms tightly around his middle. They only indulged it for a moment before releasing one another, Aelor gently placing Aegon—never having woken—into her arms. He smiled once more, then turned and strode away. Elia could only watch him go for the second time that day, wondering if it might be the last time she ever saw him.
Ser Manfred Darke spoke as Aelor rounded the corner and disappeared. His voice suited his look, rough and ugly. "I am here to serve, Princess."
Elia nodded absently, hugging Aegon closely as she stared at the corner his uncle had just vanished around. "Let us pray you never have to, Ser Manfred." The Dornish Princess slowly turned and entered the room where her daughter played on, oblivious in the way only children could be to the danger she was now in. "Let us pray hard."